


that arsonist's lullabye

by troubadore



Series: yenskier post-ep 6 smut fics [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gratuitous Smut, Past Geralt/Yennefer, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, one-sided geralt/jaskier, so much smut yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23370409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: "Heard your song," Yennefer says suddenly, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at her. "The one about him and me. And you." She pauses. "Us."Absently, Jaskier fiddles with one of his rings. Of course she has. "Of course you have. I'm famous, didn't you know."She gives him a withering look, but Jaskier has been at the end of harsher looks from Geralt often enough that it doesn't phase him. He just shrugs and offers her a wane smile."Did he know you're in love with him?" she asks, glancing down at her nails. Like she's bored. But she wouldn't have asked if it didn't mean anything to her, Jaskier knows that much.She's not good at pretending to give a shit if she doesn't.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: yenskier post-ep 6 smut fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680886
Comments: 27
Kudos: 215





	that arsonist's lullabye

**Author's Note:**

> ok yall my ass got Really Into the idea of yen and jask bitching abt geralt breaking their hearts and then falling into bed together in a bout of petty spitefulness and becoming friends with benefits bc it keeps happening and they ARE friends and they both like sex so why not right
> 
> so.....yeah, enjoy some porn i guess lmao

Yennefer is at his table when Jaskier finishes taking his bows and collecting the coin thrown at him during his performance. 

"Witch," he greets her, sliding into his chair. The barkeep brings him an ale, on the house, for his trouble. 

"Bard," she greets back, coolly. Her eyes roam the place, taking in the drunken patrons settling back into their seats. Her nose scrunches at the overwhelming smell of piss in the air, and Jaskier, hysterically, thinks it's cute. 

Gods, what has the world come to? 

Jaskier takes it upon himself to break the silence that's settled between them. "Is there a particular reason you're in a disgusting tavern in a backwater town?" 

"Could ask the same of you," she shoots back, and Jaskier just holds up his ale. "Thought you were playing the courts these days." 

"When the weather is bad." 

She looks out the window to the calm, warm summer night and hums through pursed lips. "Fair enough." 

Silence settles between them again. Jaskier doesn't feel the need to fill it this time. Instead, he knocks back another mouthful of bad ale and tries to ignore the pain in his chest where his heart is. 

It hasn't eased at all since that day on the mountain, months ago now. And it hadn't taken long for the nightmares to start—he still wakes up in a cold sweat most mornings, breathing erratically, hand outstretched towards a broad back turning away from him, his pleading words of _Don't leave me behind, Geralt!_ choked on his tongue. 

He's so _tired_ of feeling like this. 

"Heard your song," Yennefer says suddenly, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at her. "The one about him and me. And you." She pauses. "Us." 

Absently, Jaskier fiddles with one of his rings. Of course she has. "Of course you have. I'm famous, didn't you know." 

She gives him a withering look, but Jaskier has been at the end of harsher looks from Geralt often enough that it doesn't phase him. He just shrugs and offers her a wane smile. 

"Did he know you're in love with him?" she asks, glancing down at her nails. Like she's bored. But she wouldn't have asked if it didn't mean anything to her, Jaskier knows that much. 

She's not good at pretending to give a shit if she doesn't. 

"I honestly don't know," he says, after a moment. His ale is gone. He waves the barkeep down for another. "Never said it outright in words, but I wasn't exactly subtle, either. If he did—" Jaskier stares off into the distance, lips pursed. "—if he did, it never mattered enough to comment on." 

"It matters to him," she says. When the barkeep brings another ale, she holds out some coin of her own and says, "Wine, please, the strongest you have," and sends him off again. "He never shut up about you, you know." 

That makes Jaskier snort. "You don't need to make me feel better." 

"I'm serious." Yennefer looks at him then, purple eyes surprisingly soft, and Jaskier has to look away. "Always _bard this_ and _bard that._ Kind of annoying, really." 

Jaskier finds himself chuckling. "That's me. Always annoying, even when I'm not around." 

How true that is, he thinks, and suddenly his mood plummets again. It's what Geralt liked to say about him, that he was always a nuisance and in the way and always where he wasn't wanted. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

The barkeep brings Yennefer her wine. She sniffs at it, makes another face, then holds it up. "Love is shit," she says, firm. There's a history behind those words, one he doesn't know, but that gives them a certain kinship in this moment. 

Jaskier holds up his ale. "Love is shit," he agrees, and they take long drinks. 

The night continues on in similar fashion. Jaskier stops after two ales, tipsy but not wanting to head straight into shitfaced. Yennefer orders them food, and they eat it as the rest of the town clears out. She actually laughs at a few of his jokes, and Jaskier manages to push Geralt out of his mind for a little while. 

He must have had more ale than he thought, though, when he finds himself gazing at the sorceress and saying, "You really do have the most stunning eyes, witch." 

She bats them at him, lips curled in a smirk. Her cheeks are ever so slightly flushed. "Oh? Please, keep telling me how stunning I am, bard." 

"Extremely," he says, tongue loose. "But you know it. Stunningly beautiful, powerful in ways I could only imagine. Truly, the perfect subject for a ballad. I should write one for you." 

"Haven't you?" 

Jaskier waves his hand and almost falls out of his seat, steadying himself on the table. "That one doesn't count. No one knows it's you specifically except for you and me. And maybe Geralt. But no, I'm talking an _actual_ ballad about the great sorceress of Vengerberg, a storm in a bottle!" 

She ducks her head, but Jaskier catches the way her lips twitch, wanting to spread into a grin, and he counts that as a victory. Her dark hair falls around her face in waves, and his eyes are drawn down to her breasts before he pulls them back up. Heat stirs in him, low and familiar. 

She truly is a beauty, and Jaskier has always had an appreciation for beauty. 

Even beautiful sorceresses who steal the heart of the witcher he loves and then break it right in front of him. 

"Sweet words and the finer things in life," she says, musingly, and Jaskier tilts his head at her to encourage her to go on. Her voice is soft, coy, when she asks, "Are those all you're made of?" 

"It's all any bard is made of," he says. With a wink he adds, "But I like to think there's a little bit more to me, personally." 

There's a glint to those purple eyes as she looks at him from under her lashes, and Jaskier feels a certain electric heat stirring in the air. It makes him hot under the collar and harden in his trousers. 

"I bet there is, to have followed a witcher around for so long," she says. With that, she finishes her wine, and Jaskier watches her tongue lick the last drops of it from her full lip. 

She stands, then, and Jaskier follows, slowly, a tension hanging in the air around them. It's a familiar tension, a good tension, something that leads to places he loves exploring. 

"I have a room," he offers, and she smiles at him—bewitching, alluring, tempting. Ensnaring. Devastating.

_She'll destroy with her sweet kiss._

"I was hoping you did." 

  
  


She's on him as soon as the door to his room is closed behind them, mouth demanding against his, and Jaskier falls back against the wall with her pressed up against him. She licks into him, sucks at his lip, and he tastes the wine on her tongue and the fruit she'd eaten. Her lips are plush, and he bites back, nips at her, trailing kisses down her neck. 

His hands settle on her waist then move around to her back, pulling at the laces of her dress to loosen it before settling on her ass, and he lifts her into his arms. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling at it as he walks them over to the bed. They fall together, and she begins pulling at his doublet, pulling it off and tossing it across the room. He lets it happen, trailing his hands instead up her skirt, pushing it up as he leaves more kisses over her collarbones, nosing down the center of her breasts, tracing the edge where her dress begins. 

"This would be easier," she says, breathlessly, "if you'd just rip it off." 

Jaskier looks up at her, wide-eyed in disbelief. The heat under his skin subsides—but only a very small amount. "Does he do that? Just rip it off you?" 

Yennefer shrugs, her legs wrapping around him. She looks the very picture of content feline getting exactly what it wants, unconcerned. "It's just a dress. There are more important things on our minds, usually." 

Jaskier scoffs, but doesn't make a move to remove it. Honestly, _ripping_ it off, how very like Geralt. "Well, I won't be doing that, so you'll just have to deal." 

Yennefer goes to protest—he knows she does, with the way she opens her mouth—but he leans down and kisses her again, deep and long. "Shush. I'm not a brute, so you're going to have to let go of those expectations." 

"How charming." 

"Just lie back," he says, lilting, "and enjoy yourself for once." 

She huffs, but doesn't protest, settling back and waiting. 

Jaskier doesn't let her stew too long—with practiced ease, he finds the hem of her skirt, his fingertips settling on the smooth skin of her legs, and slowly, teasingly, pushes it up, feeling the way she starts trembling under his touch, though her face says she's _bored, please get on with it._

He spreads her thighs as he reaches them, the skirt settling just above her hips, and he takes a moment just to _look,_ to appreciate her form. Her skin is such a soft, warm bronze, like melted caramel, smooth and free of hair. Very much unlike his own, covered in small scars from his travels and hair as thick as a forest, and very much unlike the scar-covered battlefield of Geralt's skin, if not quite as much hair. 

He leans down, pressing his lips against her thigh, trailing his nose over it, feeling the smoothness, moving in toward where she's already wet. He licks at her, pressing the flat of his tongue against her clit, and then takes it between his lips and sucks. She bucks at that, a gasp— _Fuck, bard! Gods—_ leaving her, and Jaskier grins. 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"Shut the fuck up," Yennefer groans, and one of her hands comes to thread into his hair. _Kink much?_ "Get to it." 

Jaskier does. He buries his face between her thighs, fitting his mouth right over her clit and licking up her wetness. She tastes sweet, almost floral— _lilacs and gooseberries,_ even in this—and he moans against her. He runs his hands over her thighs, squeezing and massaging, before letting one hand trail inward, dipping through the slick smearing there, finally reaching where his mouth has made a home, teasing at her cunt. 

" _Shit, bard,"_ Yennefer moans, tugging at his hair, drawing an answering moan from him. He pushes two of his fingers into her cunt in retaliation, searching for that spot in her and rubbing against it when he finds it, and she clenches on them immediately, body tensing and arching, pressing his face against her harder. " _FUCK!"_

Jaskier pulls away just long enough to say, "We'll get there," before diving back in, working his tongue against her clit, massaging it and sucking on it in turns. She trembles against him, so, _so_ sensitive already, thigh quivering with building pleasure. She moans and mewls, short, bitten-off _fuck_ s and _gods, bard_ s falling from her mouth as he eats her out, working her to her first orgasm of the night—because there _will_ be multiple ones for her tonight, if he has anything to say about it. 

He wants to make this _good,_ because he has this feeling Yennefer, in all her many decades on the Continent, doesn't allow herself quite the luxury she should. At least not in this area—something tells him it's always quick and fast and hard, and he thinks she deserves a little pampering now and again. 

"Let go for me," he husks, voice rough, fingers dragging in against that spot in her that makes her arch and cry out. "We've got all night, come for me." 

She's got a hand in her mouth, biting at the thick part of her palm under her thumb. From where she lies on her back, she manages to glare at him over the swell of her breasts. "You'll have to try harder than—" 

She cuts off with a loud, broken cry of, " _S_ _hit, bard!"_ and shakes apart as he curls his fingers against that spot inside her, simultaneously sucking hard at her clit, and Jaskier licks up all the sweet slick that pours from her cunt as she comes down, slowing his fingers, finally withdrawing to lick the slick from them. 

Yennefer is flushed, breathing heavily, dress slipping from her shoulders to let her breasts spill out, and she looks at Jaskier from under heavily lidded eyes. It's a hot, come-hither look, and his cock, hard and aching in his trousers, gives a twitch. 

"Well?" he asks, breathless and not a little haughty. He must look a right mussed mess, slick on his chin and hair askew. 

She rolls her eyes, but she spreads her legs wider, the fingers of one hand inching down her stomach to slip between the folds of her cunt, teasing herself. Her fingers come away wet, slick connected between them and her cunt in a thick strand. "It was satisfactory, I suppose." 

" _Satisfactory?"_ Jaskier parrots in disbelief. Offense settles in his chest, along with determination. "Only _satisfactory?_ Witch, you insult my reputation too far!" 

She just shrugs, smug, taunting. "I call it like I see it." 

Oh, he'll show her ' _satisfactory'!_

He crawls back over her and takes her plush lips again, one hand slipping back between her legs to join hers still teasing at her clit. He shoves his fingers back in, biting at her mouth, swallowing her mewls as he massages her back to trembling, restrained pleasure. Her other hand around his shoulders keeps him pressed against her as she thrusts her hips, seeking more, always more, and he ruts against her thigh, easing the pressing need of his own. 

She comes on just the combined efforts of their fingers this time, other hand in his hair, breathing hard, and he soothes her with gentle kisses on her cheeks and down her neck to her breasts. She tosses her head back as he takes one in his mouth, sucking and teasing the nipple with his tongue, her hair splayed out like an inky halo on the scratchy sheets. 

"Fuck, bard," she gasps, and when Jaskier looks up at her she's regarding him with something close to admiration. "I suppose you know a thing or two of pleasure." 

"I certainly like to think I do," he says, licking the taste of her from his fingers yet again. Her gaze goes dark—dark _er—_ and energy hums in the air. He raises a prim eyebrow, asking, teasingly, "Once more, just because?" 

"I'm definitely not going to stop you." 

And she doesn't—he slides back down her body, taking her dress with him, baring her to the warm air of the room. She settles back, sprawling lazily over the bed, arms stretched over her head, breasts out, and the spread of her legs invites him to lie between them again, her slick glistening on the folds of her cunt in the low light of the room, coating her thighs and pooling on the bed beneath. 

She really is quite breathtaking, Jaskier will admit that, surrounded in a lazy sort of confidence that draws you in, ensnared in her grasp. All her magic, most likely, but chaos is only what its master makes of it. 

The room smells of sweat and sex, of her lilac and gooseberries scent and his own musk. Both of her hands are in his hair now as he licks and sucks at her clit, teasing more slick from her and drinking it up like it's the finest wine. Her thighs clamp around his head, muscles twitching from how tight-strung she's holding herself, trying to prolong the pleasure. 

_"Fuck,"_ she moans, long and drawn out, and Jaskier presses his tongue harder against her, flicking it fast and firm, working his fingers in and out of her cunt, aiming for her pleasure spot with ruthless enthusiasm. His chin is dripping with her slick, sticky with it, the scent of it in his head and driving him insane, his own hips rutting uselessly against the bed, searching for relief from the building tension and need in his gut. 

_"Shit, shit_ _!"_ she gasps, grinding against his face, thighs squeezing around him before she relaxes them. He takes it in stride, his other hand rubbing soothingly over her thigh and encouraging her to do as she pleases. She pulls on his hair, hard, and he moans against her. " _Oh fuck oh shit, right there right there! Gods, bard, you're going to make me come again—shit!"_

"Let go for me," he rasps, fingers squelching as he drags them out and pushes them back in faster, pushing her to the edge, more slick coating his hand. "Come on, witch." 

She lets out a string of _oh oh oh!_ raising in pitch, hips thrusting up and punctuating each one, and then her whole body arches as she comes for the third time with a loud _Shit!—_ slick and juices squirting from her cunt, and Jaskier works her through it, slurping it up as it hits his face, and he has to reach down and grip his cock through his trousers to stave off his own orgasm. 

He finally pulls away, watching as she comes down from the high, chest heaving with heavy breaths. Her purple eyes are glazed over with euphoric pleasure, and her lips curl up in a lazy smile as she looks down her body at him, flushed and covered in sweat. 

Jaskier trails his slick-covered fingers up her body, from navel up between her breasts to her collarbones, then upwards still to her chin and her lips. Yennefer parts them and he pushes them in, closing his eyes with a moan, pressing his other hand against his aching, needy cock as she sucks her own slick off them before pulling back. 

"Mm," she hums, content and fucked out, hair a matted mess from tossing it against the bed. "Not too bad, bard. I quite enjoyed that." 

"It was my pleasure," he manages, still palming at himself. A rakish grin splits his lips. "Or yours, I suppose." 

Yennefer laughs at that, short and bright, and then her eyes, dark and ever hungry, trail down his body to land where he's working himself. She sits up in a sensuous move and closes in on him, mouth meeting his in a hard kiss as she slots herself in his lap. His hands go to her hips, gripping them tightly as she rolls them against him, moaning against her at the sweet, sweet friction. 

"Your turn, bard," she says, pulling his lip between her teeth and biting gently. It sends a jolt up his spine and he kisses her harder, and her hands begin loosening the ties on his chemise. "Night's still young, after all." 

_Finally._ Jaskier draws the chemise up and over his head once she's undone the laces to toss it away. Her fingers are back in his hair, tilting his head back so she can suck at his neck while her other hand traces down his chest, heading for his fly, unlacing it with efficient moves and reaching in for his cock. He moans into her mouth again as her fingers wrap around him, tugging at him, and he feels a jolt of electricity shoot through him, some kind of magic that makes everything _intense_ and _too much_ and _not enough._

Hm. Maybe Geralt was onto something with this whole sorceress thing. 

They flip over, Yennefer lying him out beneath her and crawling over him to settle above his lap. He helps her get his trousers down and off, kicking them away, mouths never parting. Her hands skim over his chest, fingers splayed out, feeling him, running through the hair there. Her hips gyrate in slow, teasing circles, and he ruts up against her, the stimulation _good_ but _not enough._ She presses down, rubs her cunt over his cock, slicking it with her wetness, and he moans at the sparks of fire and lightning that race up his limbs, tingling under his skin, a low pool of heat settling in his belly. 

Panting, she pulls away from the kiss, reaching down with a hand to grip him and hold him as she lifts herself to position him where she wants him. She bites her lip, eyes fluttering closed as she begins sinking, _maddeningly_ slow, onto his cock, and Jaskier grips her hips tight enough to bruise at the hot wet _tight_ clench of her cunt around him. 

" _Fuck,"_ he breathes, and she laughs, high and airy, but doesn't stop. 

Finally, _finally,_ she's seated all the way on him, and Jaskier breathes deeply through his nose, controlling the urge to push up into her, seeking to be deeper deeper _deeper._ His hands flex against her hips, and she grins down at him, taunting, cupping her breasts in her hands, hair falling over her shoulders. She's a vision above him, wild and feral, untameable—and Jaskier thinks that's how it should be. 

"Are you ready, bard?" she asks, and he squeezes her hips, rolling his own up against her, drawing out a moan from her. 

"Do your worst, witch." 

She starts slow, lifting herself up, dragging over his cock, before sinking back down again, quickening her pace in increments until she settles at a fast and sharp rhythm, and Jaskier bites his lip, groaning around it—he isn't going to last long, already so, _so_ high-strung, vibrating with want and need, every little movement of her above him pushing him ever closer to that edge and his release. 

The room fills with the slap of her skin against his as she bounces in earnest in his lap, her cries of _Fuck, fuck fuck!_ mixing with the breathless _Yes, yes, yes!_ s pulled from his own lips. Sharp breaths are punched out of him every time he feels her clench around him, her cunt squeezing around his cock. His hands wander over her sweat-soaked skin, pulling at her supple curves, tangling in the fall of her hair. 

" _Oh, fuck,"_ he groans, arching up and pulling her down onto him as his orgasm finally overtakes him, pleasure sweeping through his limbs and wrung from him completely as he spills inside her in thick spurts. She moans above him, hand working at her clit until she shudders through yet another orgasm of her own, slowing the roll of her hips as he softens and finally slips out. 

She falls on top of him, worn out, breathing heavily. He wraps his arms around her, nose buried in her hair, inhaling her sweet scent as he comes down from his own waves of ecstasy. They rest together for a quiet moment, limbs tangled, and it's... _nice._

"Okay, bard," Yennefer says, after they've got most of their breaths back. "I'll admit, _that..._ was good." 

It makes Jaskier snort, pride welling up in him despite it. He runs his hand up her arm in absent, soothing motions. He asks, in a mockingly haughty tone, "Just _good?_ " 

"Very good," she says. Her fingers dance up his chest. "Better than I normally get." 

"That's because you settle for barbarians." 

Yennefer simply hums in agreement, too blissed out for anything snappier. She sits up, after another long, relaxed moment, stretching her arms up, dark hair falling down her back and over her breasts, and Jaskier settles into the pillow, watching her, feeling content and sated. She glances at him, something mischievous in her purple eyes, and reaches for his flaccid cock. 

He bites his lip when her fingers wrap around it, still sensitive, and it gives a valiant twitch, but— "I don't think I'm getting it up again _that_ soon, witch. I'm only human, after all." 

"You said it yourself, bard," she says, and Jaskier gasps when a jolt goes through him, a hum like he's never felt before, burning through his limbs, in his blood, and he pants as his cock starts filling once again, aching and hard in no time at all. Yennefer tugs at it, rubbing precome down the length of it, and he moans. "I'm a witch." 

She works him with deft movements, twisting her wrist on the upstroke, pulling at the foreskin on the downstroke, setting a languid pace that keeps him teetering on the edge, never quite enough. Resigned to his fate, he relaxes into it, lets the pleasure build under his skin when she speeds up then ebb away as she slows, dragging it out. 

With one hand, he reaches up and tangles it into her hair, bringing her face to his to kiss her, the other twisted in the sheets and gripping hard when her thumb slides over the tip, drawing out more precome. She kisses back, lazy and unhurried, and it's softer than before, more sensual. It steals his breath, and he presses into her, hips rutting up into her hand as it works over his cock, drawing his pleasure out. 

She breaks the kiss to move to his ear, breath hot as she murmurs, "Your turn to come for me, bard," and he convulses when she twists her hand _just so,_ a hot jolt of magic following it, pulling his orgasm from him with a strangled cry. 

She soothes him with soft kisses on his jaw, working his cock until he runs dry and slumps against the bed, boneless and sated. He closes his eyes and enjoys the floaty feeling of euphoria tingling under his skin, the just-this-side of _too much_ overstimulation when her hand drags along his softening cock as she pulls away. 

" _Fuck,_ " he says, with feeling, and Yennefer snorts. 

"Eloquent." 

"You successfully teased my brains out through my dick," he says lightly. "I think I'm allowed a cut to my usual vocabulary repertoire." 

She rolls her eyes, tossing her hair from her face. "If you want to sound like _him,_ sure." 

Despite the current contentment suffusing through him, Jaskier feels the ache settled in his heart like a nasty, lingering cold give a weak pulse, always there, never gone. He doesn't think it ever will be, truthfully—certainly not for a while yet. 

Jaskier pushes the thoughts away forcefully, instead using what little strength remains in his limbs to pull Yennefer close, resting his head above her breast. She stills for but a moment, hesitating, before her hand goes to his hair and cards through it gently. 

"You're a cuddler," she says accusingly, but she sounds amused. 

"I am," he agrees, shameless, and trails his fingers lightly over her skin, "and tonight you will suffer it." 

Her fingers in his hair don't cease their soothing movements, and Jaskier finds his eyes growing heavy, sleep pulling at him even more with his body relaxed and comfortable, sated to the bone. 

"Sleep, bard," Yennefer murmurs, and Jaskier does as bid. 

  
  


When he wakes in the morning, Jaskier takes a moment to enjoy the peace of the calmness settled in his chest, the languid, steady beat of his heart where so many mornings these days it's fast and fear-induced adrenaline spikes his blood. No nightmares, he thinks, and wonders when he'd forgotten what it feels like to not have them more nights than not. 

He stretches, joints cracking, and looks over to Yennefer beside him, sitting up with her back to him and regarding him with an inscrutable gaze over her shoulder. 

"Morning," he greets her, and she gives him a smile. 

"Morning," she returns. 

They dress in companionable silence, pulling trousers and chemise and doublet and dress back on. Jaskier hums an aimless melody, mind whirling as he begins to compose something in honor of the sorceress whose bed he'd shared, who is full of quick wit and sharp tongue and even sharper intellect, and perhaps, even, a heart more tender than she knows. 

It's Yennefer who breaks the silence between them, asking, softly, "Will you forgive him?" 

Jaskier looks at her, at her back turned to him as she gazes out the little window in the room. Sunlight pours in through it in the pale yellow rays of early morning, though not as ungodly as Jaskier had known traveling with Geralt. 

He thinks of those mornings now, when they'd rise before dawn to be on the road, beating the townspeople to the streets before they got up for work. It would be quiet, serene almost, and despite complaints to the contrary, Jaskier enjoyed that tranquility with Geralt, the calmness that was just them walking side by side—and how they'd both look over at the same time to watch the sunrise crest over the horizon. 

Jaskier always thought it was a terribly romantic sort of moment as the first rays of sunlight caught in Geralt's hair, how it lit up his eyes like molten gold. His heart would skip a beat and Jaskier would think how fortunate he was to be the one to see it. 

He terribly, _desperately_ wants to see it again. Wants to see _Geralt_ again. 

His answer, then, is easy. 

"He need only ask," Jaskier says, painfully truthful. His aching heart beats hard against his ribs with the weight of it. 

He will be angry, he knows, because he is hurt, and he thinks Geralt deserves to feel a little bit of that hurt through his anger. But the moment Geralt asks for his forgiveness, he will have it. 

Jaskier knows himself—knows his love for his wretched, wonderful witcher—well enough to admit that much. 

Yennefer regards him with that inscrutable gaze again, lips pursed, before she nods once. "I figured as much. You truly are gone on him, aren't you." 

It's not a question, but Jaskier hums in agreement anyway, because they both know it. He clears his throat, thick with emotion, and offers the sorceress a faint, playful grin. Regardless of his feelings for Geralt—or her own—they'd formed a bond of their own, something special just for them, and Jaskier thinks he'd like to see where it goes, if she's up for it. 

"Last night was most enjoyable, though," he says, and her lips curl up in that devastating smile. "Should you like to return the favor sometime..." 

Her eyebrows raise and she looks intrigued at his implication, but she just hums, stepping into his space. The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafts around him, and Jaskier inclines his head when she tilts hers up. Soft as a feather, she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Thank you, Jaskier," she says, then turns and summons a portal with a wave of her hand. 

"See you around, Yennefer," he calls after her, and in a blink, she's gone. 

Jaskier waits until the scent of ozone is clear from the room, and the sun is pouring butter yellow into the room. With a deep breath, heart aching still, he grabs his lute and what little else he carries with him these days, and sets off, singing softly to himself as he melds into the slowly filling streets of the town, heading where the pull in his chest guides him. 

_If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence—give to you my penance—_

_—garroter, jury, and judge._

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write yen pegging jask bc its what he deserves but that didnt happen so i'm gonna do a series of yenskier smut fics set in some ambiguous time post-ep 6 but before geralt pulls his head out of his ass and apologizes to jaskier bc this is ultimately geraskier endgame 
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) // [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com)


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